Touching Atmosphere
by vacant houses
Summary: Pre-AoE. Different but familiar all the same, Crosshairs has walked on thousands of planets just like this one. This is only going to be a temporary stop. Crosshairs-centric, a collection of short stories and ficlets.
1. Touching Atmosphere

Disclaimer: Not mine

A/N: Just doing some world building with Crosshairs

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><p><span><strong>Touching Atmosphere<strong>

Crosshairs hated Seekers.

Kinda hard not to, when everything wrong with his life began and came back to them. Oh, so the Omicron colony was being invaded by the Ejoornians? And thanks to senate in-fighting and politics, no aerial forces could be deployed over there to fight off the invaders? Well, not to worry. Lord of the bright ideas, Commander Rapidfire would just love to test out a new concept he had for the battlefield. New type of troops, meant for flanking and pacifying ground forces. Paratroopers! What a fragging great idea that was. Kinda backwards if you thought about it. They already had mecha able to transform themselves into air vehicles, troops able to parachute in were...kinda redundant.

Extremely redundant. Crosshairs wasn't one of the few remaining living examples of his frame type for nothing. Sure, paratroops had been effective addition to the tactics used against the Ejoornians, but that was only because the enemy forces were primarily land based.

Decepticon forces were primarily aerials. Paratroopers were just great big dead targets in the sky for them. Thanks a lot Rapidfire. Thanks so much. Should have just shoved that bright idea back in its box and fought harder to get some damn Seekers assigned to ya problem. Or, if you were going through the whole effort of actually sparking some new soldiers, just get Seekers sparked. Except Vos tended to have a tight grip on them and blah, blah, blah, Crosshairs didn't really know much about Cybertronian politics since he spent most of his time deployed off-planet but apparently it was easier just to requisition experimental soldiers.

So yeah. Crosshairs hated Seekers. Everything would have been better if he'd built with wings instead of controlled falling devices. His existence was owed to Seekers and his life probably was just as easily going to be taken by one of them too.

Just not today.

"Are you insane, soldier?" the pilot barked as he gaped at the now dead comms system, still sparking thanks to the bullets that had just been introduced to them. "What are you-?"

The pilot turned round and his voice died at the sight of Crosshair's SMG pointed at his forehead. Behind Crosshairs though, the rest of his cohort had pulled their own weapons and had them levelled straight at Crosshairs's head. "Easy there," he growled. "Nobody do anything stupid."

"The only one doing anything stupid is you, Crosshairs. What the slag are you doing?"

Crosshairs peered past the pilot, at the dogfights going on around the sky. Autobots and Decepticons hurtling through the air. Lot more purple badges than Bots, though and the pilot had been refusing to take them closer or lower. Somewhere far, far, far below was the base they were supposed to be taking. Too heavily fortified for a frontal assault. So someone had the bright idea to take to the air and had scrambled all the air forces nearby. Unfortunately, Crosshairs's unit had been part of those nearby forces. "Not jumping," he sneered. "We do that, it's suicide. Look at the number of Seekers they got."

Like he thought, that got them to shut up. They'd been good. Oh, so good. Obeyed all the stupid orders handed down to them from commanders that no idea how to use the forces they'd been given, watched as their numbers steadily drop. They were good little soldiers, they had to be. Hadn't been sparked for anything else. War born, war built. But this was too much. An entire airborne unit had jumped in conditions like this only a couple of cycles ago. No survivors.

Crosshairs had had enough.

And by the looks of things here, so had his frame brothers.

"Gotta a plan, Cross?" that was Overflight, dry and calm like they weren't up slag alley.

The paratrooper smiled coldly. "Just one." He shoved the pilot from his chair, ignoring the mech's protests and sent the drop ship in for a spiral. "Survive."

The pilot, Lightwind or Blightwind or whatever his designation was, shrieked. Crosshairs couldn't see it but his frame brothers had given him cool looks before settling back into their seats. One by the cockpit yanked the pilot away who was fumbling for a gun, a mad attempt to regain control of the drop ship. Apparently, his brothers had decided that there was no difference whether they jumped or whether they allowed Crosshairs to try to fly the ship. The paratrooper actually hadn't flown anything outside the simulations, but hey, he figured, nothing motivates you to get it right on your first go than almost certain death.

The drop ship plunged through the wild aerial foray. At least three Decepticon seekers broke off and pursued them. _::I've got guns::_ Steelwire murmured over their battle comm channel.

_::Good::_ Crosshairs grunted as he rolled and juked the drop ship out of the way of the tracking laser fire. A few hits managed to land, the ship pitched and it sounded like something exploded, but he still had control. There was a shudder, a deep vibration as Steelwire started up the shooting back at their pursuers. Beneath him, he could see that base growing larger and closer. The anti-air turrets had been taken out during an earlier bombing run but the Decepticon forces had gathered so fiercely in the air that the Autobots hadn't been able to land their own troops.

Well, Crosshairs was about to fix all that. They were supposed to be game changers after all.

"Pull up," a sickly voice moaned behind him. Apparently Blighty or Lighty had peered into the cockpit again. "You're going too fast, pull up."

Crosshairs smirked. "Ah, Lightwind, glad you could join me again." He released the controls, the ship dipped before Crosshairs pushed the pilot back into his seat again and Blightwind took control, frantically trying to correct their plunge. "This is where we get off." Crosshairs punched the pilot amicably. "Not up _there._"

His frame brothers had the drop ship door open and several had already gone. Wind roared and the air screamed as jets flew through by and tried to murder each other. He could hear the sound of gunfire, explosions. It was a hurricane, a relentless storm of energy, where conditions changed in less than astrosecond. And he'd be jumping into the heart of it, the center of this death storm.

Eh.

Whatever.

Wasn't like he had any better options right now. Crosshairs didn't think the drop ship was gonna make the trip back home. Blightwind was probably going to go down with his ship.

But at least this way, they had a fighting chance. None of them would have made it if they'd obeyed the pilot's orders. Crosshairs sauntered up to the hollowing wind, past Overflight still waiting for him. He peered down at the distant ground, then simply tipped forward and-

Falls.


	2. Crossroads

Disclaimer: Not mine

A/N: Just some world building with Crosshairs.

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><p><span>Crossroads<span>

The first time they meet is on Deneb Eight, in the middle of a Decepticon outpost. In the middle of taking said Decepticon outpost.

Things had been pretty quiet on the way in. That, Crosshairs reflected, should have been their first warning sign. It had been an uneventful drop, carefully picked due to a solar flare from the star system's sun. Communications and long range sensors would be on the fritz, so hopefully their insertion would be a quiet one. The drop had been precisely timed, made moments only before the solar surge had hit. Hopefully, their shuttle would be able to make it back in the midst of the storm.

The flight over had been a sombre one. Silent. Tense.

There were only a handful of his frame brothers left.

Overflight to his right. Pylon a few meters away. Sigma. Twitch. A five mech squad when once they could have inserted fifteen of them. Maybe there were a few more deployed elsewhere. It was hard to keep track of people in this Primus damned war. As the war had spread across Cybertron and off it, the Autobot forces had been spread thin to combat the Con threat. It hadn't helped that the first few commanding officers given command of Crosshairs' unit hadn't really known how properly use the paratroopers. They'd been deployed badly, they had suffered for it. Now only a precious few remained.

Onlined for a war with an invading alien species, Crosshairs's frame type had only just been put into production when the great war started. They still drew the occasional odd stare whenever they transferred out to new bases. The 'coat', most obvious. In actuality, a hyper-flexible metal able to alter its properties when given a signal from his frame. It was able to stiffen and turn rigid, provide extra drag if they were coming in too fast. Crosshairs' frame as well, experimental. Made from a rare alloy of Cybertonium, it was light-weight and yet extremely durable. They were as tough as any front-liner, meant to be able to secure and hold enemy territory. Only, their method of entry tended to be from the sky.

Still. This mission. Something was off. They'd known the solar storm would bring down the base sensors but surely someone had to be watching the sky. Crosshairs paced carefully on the outer perimeter wall while his frame brothers remained behind cover.

No one tried to shoot him.

Well. That was odd.

"Maybe they knew we were coming and gave up and left," Overflight remarked dryly. They were all tense, waiting for the air to be filled with gunfire.

That was when they heard it. A dull roar like something had imploded. Vibrations that reverberated right under their very feet. Crosshairs had his SMGs drawn in a flash and raised up high but it sounded like it was coming from deeper within.

"Or maybe, they're having some trouble of their own," Crosshairs grunted. "Maybe the solar flares are giving them more problems than expected."

Then there was the high pitched whines of energy rifles and gunfire. The paratrooper narrowed his optics. "Or maybe not," he amended. "Sounds like someone's giving them slag."

Sigma wandered up beside him. "The Decepticons are distracted. The mission is still on," he said simply, then jumped down from the perimeter wall. The rest of the squad followed. They couldn't afford to pass up this opportunity no matter what was happening, a clean insertion like this wouldn't come again. This outpost was set over several deep mines and kept the Decepticons supplied with important material. The Autobots didn't have the resources to capture currently stationed in this sector of space so they'd elected to simply destroy the base. Pylon and Overflight were loaded with the charges for the job, both were hanging back as they advanced. The only one of them with proper demolitions training was Pylon.

Whatever was giving those Decepticons cause for concern really was doing its job well. They encountered only a few guards that they dropped quick enough before the purple badges could get off an alarm. "This is going too easy," Crosshairs pulled his arm back. A vicious blade extended from his forearm, coated with the energon of the Decepticon he just dispatched.

"Which just means it's all about to go wrong," Twitch murmured.

They were proven right later when a patrol came down the corridors at an intersection they were passing through. Crosshairs rolled back and came up shooting as he ducked back behind the corner. The air filled with a mix of plasma shots and hard ammo as the Cons fired back. The wall Crosshairs hid behind grew hot as it was sprayed with plasma. The paratrooper popped his head briefly back into the main hallwayand fired his SMG, but the Decepticons had backed up further and taken cover behind containers or other intersecting paths.

A stalemate then, Crosshairs grimaced as he pulled back to protect himself. Well, this was certainly slag. Opposite him, on the other side of the main corridor and in cover was Sigma. At the back of Crosshairs processor as he fired round the corner, concern briefly arose for the rest of the squad, who hadn't advanced as far as Sigma and Crosshairs had when they'd seen the Decepticon squad. He couldn't remember if there was anything down that section of the hallway to use as cover.

They would be alright. They had to be.

He had far too few frame brothers left for Crosshairs to even contemplate otherwise.

Down where the purple badges were, there was a commotion. Startled shouts and a burst of gunfire away from them. Then, as quickly as it started, silence. _What the-_ Crosshairs peered round the corner-

A white frame ducked and rolled towards him, a blade flashed. Crosshairs swore as he fell back, barely bringing up his own blade in time, SMG still clutched in his hand as he caught the thin sword aiming for his spark. But his attacker had two, the other one thrust forward in a stab-

And froze.

"I wouldn't," hissed Sigma, shotgun pressed against the mech's back.

"If you know what's good for ya, I'd be putting that gun away," a voice rumbled menacingly.

Crosshairs grimaced at the strain of keeping his blade up. He glared up at-

-Electric blue optics set above a drawn up battle mask. An Autobrand prominent on the mech's chassis. What the- at the same time the other's allegiance registered, so too did the strange Autobot seem to realise what he was dealing with. Slowly, he pulled both swords away, holding them down in a non-threatening manner.

The paratrooper backed up, immediately. "Command didn't say someone else was on this mission!" he growled in confusion. "Who the slag are you? Oh, and Sigma, he's apparently a Bot. Lower the shotgun down but shoot him if he's not."

The other mech snorted in amusement, entirely at ease at the large weapon that had been levelled at him as he turned around. His faceplate drew back, revealing scarred lip plates. "Relax," he drawled. "'name's Wheeljack. I'm a Wrecker. 'Cons invited me over for a holiday at the end of my last mission. Unfortunately, they forgot to lock me up properly." The swordsman paused, contemplated something for a moment then laughed darkly. "Rather, they thought they did but their best wasn't good enough. And by the sounds of things, I'm guessing you're not my rescue squad."

"We're the blow this place sky high squad actually," Crosshairs retorted. A Wrecker huh? That actually explained quite a lot. "Came to deliver the twin gifts of pain and death to all the good little Decepticons stationed here."

Turning his shotgun completely away from Wheeljack, Sigma growled, "And you've just been recruited. Come on, let's move."

Overflight and Twitch approached quietly from down the corridor, faces somber. "Pylon's dead. Lucky shot, got him right in the spark."

The words washed over Crosshairs almost at a distance. He heard them but he couldn't comprehend them. A disconnect, that this couldn't be real, this wasn't his reality. Not another one, not another brother. Not Pylon, steady, calm, dependable Pylon. He grappled with this information for only a few astroseconds. Then his programming kicked in and dumped everything he was feeling. He was a soldier. He'd mourn later. Right now, he had a job to do.

"Guessing we still got his charges, then?" Crosshairs asked. "Since we haven't been blown to shreds."

Sigma shrugged. "We'll just have to set them ourselves and hope that it's enough." Pylon had been their expert. Intelligence hadn't been able to get schematics on the base, so it was a very much on-the job expectation that Pylon would find the best place to bring the outpost down.

Overflight nodded as Twitch joined them, attaching a sachet full of mines to his back. Weapons were drawn though, when Wheeljack suddenly moved forward, arm outstretched in a gimme this gesture. "Let me handle those," he rumbled. "You need a demolitionist?"

Wary, the squad kept an optic on him. Twitch made no move to hand over the explosives. "You any good?" Sigma asked.

"Who do you think caused that explosion?" Wheeljack's lip plates curled into a grim smirk. "You want this place turned into a rubble, I'm your bot."

Sigma frowned at him but evidently came to a decision to trust Wheeljack. "Good enough," he grunted. He jerked his head at Twitch then nodded over Wheeljack. Twitch pulled off the sachet and handed it over to the Wrecker. Wheeljack attached it to himself in smooth, practised motions. "Let's move, I know just the place to set these darlings. Would have wired it there and then but I was all outta booms."

He took off before the squad could react. Crosshairs was the first on his feet to respond, dashing after the mad mech. He caught up two corridors down, past a whole heap of dismembered Decepticon bodies. Wreckers sure as slag earned their reputation as warriors to be feared on the battlefield. These had to have been killed when Wheeljack had been heading towards them.

"What sorta maniac takes point with enough explosives strapped to them to blow up a small moon?" Sigma snarled when he caught up to them.

Crosshairs merely snorted. That answer was self evident, while he'd certainly heard of the Wreckers, this was the first time he was witnessing it in action. "Dunno," Wheeljack answered unperturbed as he led them down several levels. They were met with little resistance. "What sorta of insane mecha falls over 11 km just to land in an enemy base? Paratroopers right? Not a lotta mecha have the frame build."

"Wrecker's gotta point," Crosshairs shrugged at Sigma. "It's kinda stupid. Anyone else think it's stupid? I've said it before and I'll say it again, its fragging stupid."

Twitch slugged Crosshairs in the shoulder as they took a corner. "Shut up, Crosshairs."

The paratrooper pushed his lip plates together but fell silent as Wheeljack literally ran into a patrol of Decepticons, blades drawn and slicing in less time than it took for Crosshairs to comprehend the situation. Dumbly, he almost raised his SMGs before it occurred to him that shooting meant risk hitting the Wrecker loaded with a slag ton of explosives. He stowed his guns away before unsheathing his blade, internal mechanisms of his forearm unfolding and transforming to bring out the inbuilt weapon.

Crosshairs plunged in after the mad mech. While he had some skill with his own blade, it was nothing like the Wrecker who refused to remain grounded. He was a constant whirl of motion that bounced off the floor, onto the walls, then onto the Decepticons with vicious strikes. Energon sprayed the walls as he blazed a trail of destruction. The encounter was quick, brutal.

"Almost there," that was all they heard before Wheeljack was off again. Crosshairs glared after the Wrecker.

"Can't we just leave him-?"

"No." Sigma's tone was final. "We have a mission. And he's helping."

Crosshairs subsided with a grumble as he glared at his frame-brother's back. Dammit, if he was in charge, they wouldn't being putting up with this ridiculousness. The Wrecker obviously had everything handled and at this point, it just felt like the squad was trailing on behind him as opposed to get themselves the frag outta dodge because this place was gonna be going down in a spectacular explosion.

By the time they'd caught up with him again, they found the mech setting up a mine. "Load bearing wall," Wheeljack tapped the wall in front of him. He nodded at them. "This level's the furthest one we needed, don't need to go down anymore. Should be able to reach the structural supports from here."

"And you know this because?"

"Because I fought my way up from three levels down outta the brig. Gotta quick look round the place."

They fought their way through two more Decepticon patrols before Wheeljack was satisfied. Then, it was a mad rush to get out of the base before a Con either tripped a bomb trying to disable it or the countdown timers went off. They couldn't risk a remote detonation, the solar flares might cause interference with the signal. They'd just emerged out on the outer perimeter when the first explosion went off.

"Too early," Wheeljack growled as everyone suddenly had a fresh burst of speed when they registered what it was that they were hearing. "'Con must have set it off." It was time to get out, out of there completely. The first bomb was merely a prelude, it set off a chain reaction that sent the earth groaning and shuddering right beneath them. They cleared the first wall, then everyone flipped into their alt-modes and gunned it.

Cracks snacked through the ground, chasing their tail lights. Crosshairs swore as he felt the earth break apart. _Stupid, stupid._ The blast radius was a hell of a lot larger than Command had projected. He kept driving, driving and cursing the universe itself for everything. Eventually they pulled ahead of the quaking and turned around and watched as the outpost was swallowed and sunk into the ground.

They transformed once the shaking stopped. "What the slag was that?" Sigma demanded. "What did you do, use all the charges?"

Wheeljack looked bemused. "Was I not supposed to?" He poked the sachets on his back. At some point, he'd asked for Overflight's pouch but they hadn't realized he'd used every single one of them inside.

Sigma grew furious as he gestured sharply to the enormous crater behind them. "That was not necessary!" he snapped.

The Wrecker gave a lazy shrug. "Didn't know how big the base was, didn't get a good look on my way in. Just making sure I got everything. How long till evac?"

The paratrooper swelled in indignation and was prepared to go on a rant of how reckless the...Wrecker was. "The solar storm needs to clear up before we can call for evac," Overflight spoke up calmly. "We should put some more distance between us and the base in case there were any survivors."

Wheeljack nodded. Without waiting for Sigma's order to back up Overflight's suggestion, he'd slipped into alt-mode. Sigma growled as he glared down the rest of the squad, his gaze pinning on Crosshairs as if sensing his frame brother's mischievous desire to simply wander off after the mech flouting the chain of command. Not that Crosshairs wanted anything to do with a Wrecker, he'd heard they were mad and now he'd witnessed it, but because Crosshairs took up any opportunity to act out.

"Fine," Sigma allowed, voice clenched. He fell into his alt-mode and immediately drew ahead of their unit, past Wheeljack. The Wrecker fell back, allowing the others to pass. Crosshairs had idled for a moment, then drove past Wheeljack.

They set up camp a couple of kilometers away. A tense affair as the paratroopers finally allowed themselves to acknowledge the loss of a frame brother. They had come in as five but were going to leave as four. Few words were spoken as they refueled and checked their frames over for damage. Wheeljack had sustained quite a bit, both from his imprisonment and fighting his way out. The Wrecker though had simply bore it and continued on, refusing to allow his injuries to slow him down. Overflight had a bit of medical training beyond the basic first aid that they all knew, so he settled to do what he could for the Wrecker.

Eventually, the repairs were completed and the Wrecker was released. He seemed to recognize that his fellow soldiers were not in a sociable mood, so Wheeljack withdrew to the edge of the camp where Crosshairs lingered, away from his brothers, and said nothing.

It was a long night.

Their comms came back the next morning. No Decepticons had pursued them during the night, so it seemed Wheeljack's mines had been quite thorough. The shuttle picked them up soon after they hailed it. The flight back was quiet.

Mission accomplished.

How slagging fantastic. Yet another brother lost from their already limited numbers.

Crosshairs started dully at the bulkhead when the shuttle landed back at their base. His squad was quick to dismount, though Crosshairs was furthest from the door. Wheeljack had been seated opposite him and when he rose to leave, the Wrecker paused just at the exit.

"Wreckers sure could do with a few mecha with skills like yours," he commented blandly.

Then he was gone.

Crosshairs had stared after him, incensed by the comment so fresh on Pylon's death. He stumbled to his feet and out of the shuttle to give Wheeljack a piece of his processor, but the Wrecker had been swallowed by the crowd in the landing bay. Join the Wreckers, a squad with a higher mortality rate than even his?

As if!

He doesn't see Wheeljack again until hundreds of vorns later, when Crosshairs can't recall the last time he's seen a frame brother and he's just been transferred to a new squad temporarily. On loan, Command had said.

"Welcome to the Wreckers, Crosshairs."

Wasn't like he had anything left to lose. Just him now, him alone in this whole damn universe. Or so he thought. Against his will, Crosshairs finds a place there. Makes some new brothers.

They die just as fast as his old ones.

After a while, he just learns to stop caring.

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><p>AN:Yes, this is TF:P Wheeljack because Bayverse can have Que to cover that whole science thing.  
>Also, there's some concept art floating round the net where Crosshairs has an inbuilt blade. It's pretty sweet.<p> 


	3. Of Swords and Companions Past

Disclaimer: Not mine

A/N: Just doing some world building with Crosshairs. Headspace continues to play around with these things.

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><p><span><strong>Of Swords and Companions Past<strong>

"'m gonna get that fixed."

Last words Wheeljack ever said to him. Aftermath of a battle, Crosshairs's inbuilt blade a broken, shattered mess. Bad fight, he'd snapped the blade on the thick hide of a Con frontliner. Crosshairs had emptied an entire clip in the big brute's throat before it stopped moving. Caught in the euphoria of surviving, they'd lingered just a little too long as Wheeljack had gathered up the pieces. Under the swordmech's tutelage, Crosshairs skill had developed until the paratrooper could hold his own against the Wrecker, match blade for blade. He relied on it in a way he hadn't before joining the Wreckers and the loss of his sword is a nasty shock to his systems.

Next thing Crosshairs knew, he was waking up in a Con prison. Whether Wheeljack ever made it there or not, he never found out. In some respects, escaping had been the easy part. Not knowing what had happened to his friend? One of the few Autobots Crosshairs genuinely liked and respected? That was the hard part. Wheeljack had taught him the ropes of being a Wrecker, how to survive the worst the war could throw at him. But what Wheeljack hadn't shown him was how to live without one of his closest friends and Crosshairs hates the way that he's had to learn this lesson. They find no body when they go back to the battlefield, nothing on the prison's records when the Wreckers come by and tear it all to shreds. It's like the universe just upped and swallowed Wheeljack whole. No trace of whether he's alive or dead.

His blade remains broken. He refuses Springer's orders to get it fixed. It's back to the good 'ol guns again, the only things that haven't betrayed or failed him yet. There's a scar left on his arm when he gets tired of staring at the empty blade mount and hacks it off with a combat knife. The attending medic is furious when he has to fix the mess Crosshairs makes of his own forearm. Messy, messy, hadn't thought it through clearly enough, a fit of mindless anger. Kept waiting to hear that calloused voice again, challenging him to a duel. Each one of them lessons in swordplay, Wheeljack had been a master of his craft and Crosshairs something of an apprentice. Wheeljack had seen something in Crosshairs when they'd first met on that mission oh so long ago. Something none of his frame brothers had. Or maybe they did but just hadn't survived long enough for it to matter in the end. The only reason why the mech had put in a recommendation for the Wreckers on his file, not that Crosshairs had ever wanted it. He'd ignored the invitation till the Wreckers had been in desperate need of a paratrooper for a mission.

Command had loaned him over. Temporarily, they'd assured him. And it had been. He'd done the mission well. Transferred out. Then back in again. 'nother mission. And so it went. Bit by bit till eventually he resigns himself to the fact that he is a Wrecker, even if half the time his file says otherwise. Crosshairs had fought to keep the rough and burly group from making him one of them but eventually he gives up. They're his brothers now, no matter how much he'd rather otherwise.

Wheeljack and he had a good run. Longer than most of the Wreckers. Really, he should be just grateful that it hadn't ended sooner. But there's an accusing weight on his left arm, a promise that was never fulfilled, a reminder that he's missing parts of himself in more ways than one. So Crosshairs cuts it off, freeing him from the shackles of the past. Maybe once he was a swordsmech. That chapter of his life is over. It didn't feel right to fight with a sword without his battle-brother at his back. He's a gunslinger now and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Of course, the universe only lets him have this for so long before shoving Drift in his path. They meet on the battlefield because that's the only place Crosshairs can be found. He doesn't have a life outside war, never had one either. It's a regular skirmish for the Wreckers, then one lone triple changer drops from the sky with a flurry of blades and a dance so deadly, five Decepticons are dead before they even know what they're dealing with.

The sight of those swords hurts part of his spark deep inside. The moves are unfamiliar and they're a jarring disconnect from what he's half-expecting to see. Drift doesn't fight like Wheeljack at all and Crosshairs is disorientated, his shooting is the worst it's ever been his entire life. The scar on his arm itches and burns in remembrance of a limb he's amputated from himself. There's a craving there for something Crosshairs thought he'd buried long behind him. In the aftermath of that battle, he finds himself a secluded spot, arms himself with a sharpened piece of metal and furiously practises his forms. He's exhausted by the end of it and still not settled. He doesn't know what he wants, only that something is wrong and missing.

Drift travels with them till he makes his way back to his own unit. Got separated from his squad and had jumped into a Wrecker battle because he is clearly as unhinged as the rest of them. Might be something to do with the fact the mech's a triple changer. They're never the most stable of mecha. Probably something to do with having a shape one too many, programming just can't hack it. Or maybe it's just Drift, inherently. It's kinda difficult to tell what is him and what isn't. The mech has a murky sense of self, a social chameleon that soaks up the culture of whatever is around him. That goes beyond the triple changer in him, even his root mode starts altering shape to match whatever persona he is that cycle, which is something Crosshairs heard vague rumours of triple changers doing but never to the extent Drift takes it.

In the short time that they travel together, Crosshairs decides that Drift is extremely fragging annoying and wants nothing more to do with him. Wants him dead actually. The mech's swords reminds him of a life he's shoved away and Drift, of course, with his fluid coding and all-round general unstableness, slowly morphs into a Wrecker because clearly the universe hates Crosshairs. Whether intentional or not, Drift ends up sounding a lot like Wheeljack. Crosshairs finds himself excusing himself from social situations whenever he can and stewing far, far away from the mech as he tries to keep himself from shooting this mocking parody of an old friend.

When Drift is gone, the haze of fury lifts and suddenly Crosshairs can think again. But the universe isn't done with kicking a mech in his sore spots, they run into each other, every couple of hundreds of vorns or so. On and off, it's not surprising really. The war's progressed to the point that only the toughest have survived and so you start seeing the same faces after a while. Drift's a different mech every time Crosshairs sees him, thankfully never a Wrecker again. Crosshairs takes care to make each encounter shorter than the last. The scar on his arm has long healed but it still throbs in remembered pain at the sight of those swords.

Then there's this one time when Crosshairs's pinned down by a Decepticon and Drift tosses a blade straight through his head. Instead of giving the sword back, something inside Crosshairs snaps. He stows his guns away and takes the blade. Wields it like he'd been onlined with one (he had been), like it was just yesterday that he had Wheeljack at his back. It's only when the battles over, when he's torn a bloody path through the Decepticons and left a trail of dismembered limbs everywhere that he realises its Drift by his side and not Wheeljack.

Drift approached him then, as he stood in the carnage and tried to remember where the frag he was. "I did not-"

Crosshairs punched him hard in the face before shoving the blade back to its owner and storming off. They don't see each other for a few vorns after that and Drift never mentions what he'd seen, which is just the way Crosshairs likes it. Personally, he'd rather that he never saw Drift ever again but he's learnt by now that the universe rarely (never) gives him what he wants.

Which is why, thousands of vorns later, when Crosshairs answers Optimus Prime's call and finds himself part of the scant few remaining Autobot forces on Earth, he ain't all that surprised to find that Drift is there. The universe's a bitch. His arm hangs empty and waiting, still feeling the weight of a broken promise.

Maybe someday he'll get it fixed.

He's been telling himself that for a long time now.


	4. Homecoming

Disclaimer: Not mine

A/N: Just doing some world building with Crosshairs

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><p><span><strong>Homecoming<strong>

It's wet.

Crosshairs's first impression of the planet. Wet, wet, wet.

Yuck.

Between the trees, his shape is sleek and narrow. Still folded up in his cometary mode, the paratrooper is hot from atmospheric re-entry. Wispy steam curls round his alien form as his plating slowly cooled. Crosshairs does not move as he waits. Transforming too soon after a planetary jump is a good way to shove heated metal near your more delicate internals and cook 'em. Besides, he'd picked a good spot. He isn't about to bothered...any time soon.

He'd arrived in the local solar system a couple of cycles ago, following a long range transmission from Optimus Prime he'd received out in deep space. Crosshairs had been bored enough that he'd actually bothered to read the missive. Apparently, the esteemed Autobot leader, Lord Freedom himself was summoning the remaining Autobot forces to some backwater planet out in the middle of nowhere to defend it.

Oh and the Allspark was gone, so, you know. Quest over and all that. We're doomed to extinction. But that's cool, cuz we have these new fleshy pals, so everyone should come chill on this planet we found and stop the fragged off Decepticons from murdering it.

After a lot of contemplation, "Pffffft, Prime?" and thought, "Pffffffffffft, Prime!" Crosshairs set his course. He had nothing better going on right now for him, -he had been in a rare lull of no combat for about a vorn- so, sure. Yeah. Whatever.

(Plus, there had been some nagging from his damn coding but Crosshairs was kinda all meeeeh with his life at that particular point in time.)

There might have also been Hound with his obscenely large gun pressed against Crosshairs's head to assist with the decision making.

Crosshairs had found the old bot way past some place he can't be fragged remembering, murdering a Con patrol. Or maybe the purple badges were murdering Hound. It was really unclear. End point: Crosshairs killed the Decepticons (not rescue, because both Crosshairs and Hound would rather eat a bullet than admit that, though for different reasons. Hound because of his pride, Crosshairs because he doesn't know what altruism even means) and the two Autobts had been sorta drifting through the 'verse ever since. Crosshairs quite frankly would have preferred to abandon the loud, rusty pile of gears he'd acquired but he could also see the value of having back-up, rather than toughing it alone.

So yeah, Hound had been all upset over the glow cube. Crosshairs wasn't. Weapons had been drawn, mostly Hound's. Crosshairs had shut the frag up and folded pretty quickly after that.

He might have cared more at the loss of the Very Important Sacred Relic of Sacredness if you know, Crosshairs had ever had a life outside war. He's never known their species to be out of conflict with something and had privately assumed that this was the end point everyone was aiming for. Otherwise, why else had they kept on fighting to the point of no recovery? His fellow Autobots might say for peace and freedom or loyalty to Prime (in Hound's case) but Crosshairs fights because he's never known any other reality and doesn't know what he'd do with himself if he stopped.

The only thing Cybertron had ever really done for him was give him spark...then shipped him off to fight on some colony in Primus knows where. The paratrooper hadn't even been brought online on Cybertron. The first step he took on his home planet was when his unit had been recalled to fight in the growing civil war. So Cybertron and he? Not exactly on speaking terms or seeing optic to optic.

Which is why, when they gets close enough to the third planet to start exchanging messages with the Earth team and someone lets slip that oh, hey we kinda just murdered Cybertron to save this planet, Crosshairs simply rolls with it and accepts this news with little fanfare. Well, took 'em damn well long enough. Quite frankly, he's surprised it didn't happen sooner. He's spent more of his life off it and feels no strong ties to a home he was supposed to be fighting for. Nor does he care much about the planet that Prime seems to believe is their new one.

Hound, of course, had been furious and distraught. Fortunately, being tucked away in cometary mode made it hard for him to threaten Crosshairs with anything which is normally how he deals with his emotions. The paratrooper had been free to prod away at all the things that normally gave Hound a twitchy trigger finger without the fun of getting a weapon shoved in his face.

Once they were in comm range though, Crosshairs had started listening to the planet below. They'd been given a datapack with a few native languages, so he put that to good use. The internet is a confusing mess of conflicting information but one thing stood out clear.

Humans really didn't like Cybertronians.

Not the Decepticons alone. All of 'em. The 'Bots were just as bad as 'em to the majority of the species. Crosshairs is fine with this, he doesn't like organics anyway (might have something to do with being brought online for the sole purpose to kill 'em) but what he doesn't understand is why Prime wants to stay here when the natives don't even want them there.

Oh. Right, Decepticons had a hard on of hate for the little things. The local languages interweave in his processor, and he lets them in, soaking it all up. His core programming rejects it because they built him slightly ethnocentric (well, they built him to go murder aliens, so yeah, slightly is the mildest word for it) but he's an old pro at giving his core programming the middle finger and pushing past it, doing the opposite of what it wants. (Later, his programming adjusts and mollifies itself that knowing how to speak alien will be important when he has to murder said aliens. Crosshairs doesn't doubt that they'll turn on the Bots but that's cuz Crosshairs doesn't really trust anyone who isn't himself).

So when the planetside Autobots direct them down, landing point picked and everything, welcome party all sorted, Crosshairs decides to land himself several states over in a swamp in Louisiana. Something about a group called NEST meeting them and blah, blah, blah, joint military operations between bots and humans and whatever. Humans don't want them here and he doesn't want to his first moments on their stupid planet to be sullied with their presence. Nor does he want them near him when he's vulnerable, folded up in cometary form and waiting to cool down.

So yeah, Crosshairs has a few disgruntled bots on the line, demanding to know where the frag he is and why the hell he overshot the flight path. Crosshairs internally shrugs.

_::Looked boring::_ he tells Ratchet, ignoring Hound's assurances that he will be losing his head next time the old soldier sees him. That channel is filled with slurs and insults at him, so Crosshairs just shuts it off.

_::Boring-? So you decided to land in a swamp in the middle of nowhere?::_ Ratchet demands._ ::Get out of there before you rust. You will not be repaired if you do!::_

Symmetric lines with exacting precision break up what had previously been whole and smooth silver metal as Crosshairs unfolds. The Autobot twists and transforms, internal gears rearranging themselves as he gains his root mode. The mech towers over the undergrowth, muddy water sloshing in to fill the open gaps in his feet. He ignores it as he takes stock of himself on this new alien world. He shakes himself, flexes. Works the kinks out of his frame from all that time spent in cometary form.

A brief pause. The wildlife holding its breath as it senses the presence of something that did not belong to their planet. Crosshairs crouches over, his 'coattails' dragging in the mud. The dirt doesn't bother him. War is never clean and he'd been fighting all his life. Alien air circulates through his intakes, heady with the scent of this new planet.

It is not home.

It's green and it smells and when Crosshairs places a foot down on firmer earth, it squelches beneath him. Mud clings to him and dirt, and he's barely even been on this planet but he's already filthy. Crosshairs reaches out and when he grabs a tree branch, testing his grip on it, it crumbles at his lightest touch. Something moves in the undergrowth, fleeing away from the big bad alien. The fragile earth beneath his feet compresses with his every step. It's nothing like the metal his kind was meant to walk on. Different but familiar all the same, Crosshairs has walked on thousands of planets just like this one, as the war had spread, before turning its focus on finding the Allspark. This is only a temporary stop, Crosshairs knows. Because there's always a battle somewhere, always more fighting to be found. The war -they say it's over but Crosshairs knowns its not- won't stay here forever. The only difference between this world and the others is that Prime seems to think that this could become their new home.

And then there are voices on his comms, unfamiliar ones and they've got orders for him. A smirk curls at the edges of his lip plates as he ignores them.

It's not home.

Then again, it's not like Crosshairs even knows what home is.


End file.
